


Fitful/Present

by Satellite_Sweetheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Gen, Implied Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satellite_Sweetheart/pseuds/Satellite_Sweetheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in loneliness and hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fitful/Present

Empty.

That's what Sherlock feels, lying on his side on the ripped and stained ticking of the bare mattress. Peeling wallpaper and dirty paint bleed together with decades of dust and piles of rubbish and broken glass in the pale blue light. The room is as cold as it is bleak and puffs of breath form a smokey white veil across Sherlock's nose and eyes, the only visible features in a tangle of rags.

Here, in this abandoned, half-destroyed hovel, he allows himself to escape his enemies. It seems he has more and more of these each day. Dear Mrs Hudson's pursed lips. The clench of Molly Hooper's jaw. The frantic, bewildered look on Lestrade's face. The unforgiving pavement at St Barts. The bloody king with a broken crown. Knights and rooks, bishops and pawns on an endless grid. Mycroft.

The last and most terrible of these he will not acknowledge. It is the chilled hands wrapped around his ribcage, squeezing and squeezing until no warm feeling remains, inviting despair, and eventually, nothing. It is loneliness.

Here, on this ruined mattress, his mind is finally stilled, numbed by his loneliness as his skin is numbed by the freezing air. He blinks unfocused eyes slowly, the white puffs come increasingly slowly and evenly. Mercifully, his eyelids still, and he is left to Morpheus' care.

John is sitting by the hearth, sipping tea from an old RAMC mug and reading a medical journal, when Sherlock walks in to the sitting room. His violin is waiting for him, propped carelessly against the back of his chair. He embraces it like a long lost lover, then the bow is sliding across the strings like a caress.

The first note draws John from his journal. The second draws him from his chair. A sharp and plaintive melody fills Sherlock, new and desperately longing. He sees it reflected back in John's eyes, as he steps closer to Sherlock. The toes of their shoes meet.

Here, in the familiar warmth and clutter of 221B, Sherlock feels whole again.

John is leaning forward now. His hands still Sherlock's violin, and settle on Serlock's shoulders in it's place. One thumb is resting softly against Sherlock's carotid artery, reassurance that he is warm, alive, present. He leans in closer, and the entire flat is eclipsed by John Watson's face.

_"Sherlock."_

He awakens abruptly in the fuzzy gray of predawn, eyes wide and heart racing. His system is flooded with chemicals. Epinephrine, serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin.

At first he does not register his surroundings. The ramshackle building, blown partially apart by some long-forgotten military conflict, the detritus of squatters, it all has no bearing on Sherlock. He smells warm tea, cedar and wet London pavement, not animal waste and mould. The tangle of rags and cheap nondescript clothing about his limbs is replaced with the comforting heft of his beloved Belstaff. His lips are warm, and he is smiling.

Here, in this moment stolen from a dream, he is home.

"John."

**Author's Note:**

> This tense was definitely uncomfortable for me to write, and there are lots of places that could be... well, better. I had a lot of fun with the challenges I set out for myself, but I think I'll stick to past tense from now on.
> 
> Was it ambiguous enough? I hope I left enough shadows of where I was going to take this, but not enough so there aren't tons of interpretations for you guys to make.
> 
> Also, this is the first fic I've posted since I was a preteen, and my first fic for Sherlock. Concrit is welcome, but please be gentle on me.


End file.
